[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] by E. E. Cummings : Poetry Magazine

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] by E. E. Cummings : Poetry Magazine



This poem is likely about a human lover, but sometimes I like to think of this as between God and I.

O Happy Band Of Pilgrims

O happy band of pilgrims,
If onward you will tread,
With Jesus as your fellow,
To Jesus as your Head.

The faith by which you see him,
The hope in which you yearn,
The love that through all troubles
To him alone will turn.

What are they but forerunners
To lead you to his sight?
What are they save th'effluence
Of untreated Light?

The trials that beset you,
The sorrows you endure,
The manifold temptations
That death alone can cure.

What are they but his jewels
Of right celestial worth?
What are they but the ladder
Set up to heaven on earth?

O happy band of pilgrims,
Look upward to the skies,
Where such a light affliction
Shall win you such a prize.

~ John M. Neale, 1862
(found in Magnificat, Vol. 15, No. 9, for Monday, November 18, 2013)

Perfect for me, today.

Perspective

"Forgive our sins as we forgive,"
You taught us, Lord, to pray,
But You alone can grant us grace
To live the words we say.

In blazing light your cross reveals
The truth we dimly knew:
What trivial debts are owed to us,
How great our debt to You!

Lord, cleanse the depths within our souls
And bid resentment cease.
Then bound to all in bonds of love,
Our lives will spread Your peace.

~ Rosamond Herklots (1905-1987)
Found in the Magnificat, November 2013 (Vol. 15, No. 9)

The World Is Too Much With Us

The World Is Too Much With Us
by William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God!  I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

I like this poem because I OFTEN feel this way.

God Is My Great Desire

1 God is my great desire,
his face I seek the first;
to him my heart and soul aspire,
for him I thirst.
As one in desert lands,
whose very flesh is flame,
in burning love I lift my hands
and bless his name.

2 God is my true delight,
my richest feast his praise,
through silent watches of the night,
through all my days.
To him my spirit clings,
on him my soul is cast;
beneath the shadow of his wings
he holds me fast.

3 God is my strong defense
in every evil hour;
in him I face with confidence
the tempter's power.
I trust his mercy sure
with truth and triumph crowned:
my hope and joy forevermore
in him are found.


Source: Renew! #109

~ Timothy Dudley-Smith

The above was taken from hymnary.org.

This site is great for full texts and information regarding hymns.
http://www.hymnary.org/text/god_is_my_great_desire

French Table Blessing

Pour la beaute de nos chamaine,
Pour aujourd'hui et pour demain,
Et pour se pain que nous mangent,
Pour nos amis, nous Te louons.
Amen.

Weariness by George William Russell

Weariness by George William Russell

WHERE are now the dreams divine,
Fires that lit the dawning soul,
As the ruddy colours shine
Through an opal aureole?


Moving in a joyous trance,
We were like the forest glooms
Rumorous of old romance,
Fraught with unimagined dooms.


Titans we or morning stars,
So we seemed in days of old,
Mingling in the giant wars
Fought afar in deeps of gold.


God, an elder brother dear,
Filled with kindly light our thought:
Many a radiant form was near
Whom our hearts remember not.


Would they know us now? I think
Old companions of the prime
From our garments well might shrink,
Muddied with the lees of Time.


Fade the heaven-assailing moods:
Slave to petty tasks I pine
For the quiet of the woods,
And the sunlight seems divine.


And I yearn to lay my head
Where the grass is green and sweet,
Mother, all the dreams are fled
From the tired child at thy feet.